Il Cibo di Amore
by Pinkjimmychoos
Summary: Oneshot. Bill prepares a meal for Karen's birthday. Fluff alert! R


**Il cibo di amore**

**Summary: **Bill prepares a meal for Karen's birthday. Fluff alert! What's _wrong_ with me lately?!!

**A/N: **Set in the same universe as my other B/K one-shot.

**Rating:** K

**Disclaimers: **Not mine.

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"Honey it's me. I'm stuck in traffic; I was behind schedule leaving The White House again because of this stupid environmental bill. I'm going to be a little late in getting home, I'm sorry," Karen's voice was laced with guilt. "I feel terrible, especially because I had to work here on the new transportation policies overnight and didn't see you this morning and---"

"That's ok sweetheart," Bill responded distractedly, concentrating hard on the task in front of him, "I'm not doing anything special for dinner. No rush."

"You aren't?" Karen's voice was crestfallen, a little annoyed at his idle tone. He smothered a knowing smile.

"Why _would_ I be?" Bill injected just the right tone of bewilderment into his voice, "unless you count Applebee's as special. I've had a real hankerin' today for their riblets. I thought we could check out the new one on Richmond Highway tonight? The one right next to the truck stop? I don't think the gas fumes will affect the taste of the food _too_ much."

"Oh," her voice was small now, "ok then Bill. That sounds fine. See you soon."

"Bye sweetheart," he grinned as he hung up the phone, dusting the caster sugar from his sticky fingertips and surveying the wrecked kitchen. Broken ladyfingers and cocoa powder dusted the worktops and orange liqueur dripped intermittently down the oak cupboard doors. Bill Buchanan loved to cook, the only problem was: he wasn't always the _tidiest_ chef in the world.

He was sure Karen wouldn't mind the mess _too_ much however when she got home and saw the tiramisu he'd just lovingly finished making- the twelve intensive hours of care and lavish preparation was worth it. It had been sat in the refrigerator all day, soaking in the bitter espresso and mingling with the dark chocolate, and he'd just finished liberally dusting it with the said cocoa powder that was now settled like snowflakes all over the counters. Karen's favourite desert and part of her special birthday meal. It wasn't every day that his wife turned fifty after all.

He finally picked up the discarded eggshells from hours earlier and wiped away the leftover blobs of mascarpone cheese from the chopping board, dumping the sticky utensils in the sink to soak. As much as Karen appreciated his cooking, she'd sounded mildly irritated with him on the phone and he didn't want her coming back to a _complete_ disaster area, nor pre-empt any disagreements before she saw the food he'd so lovingly prepared for her.

Why would _any_ sane man, who actually valued their lives, forget their own wife's birthday? He was a little offended actually that she thought he had, but it would make it all the more special when she came home and saw the effort he'd gone to with dinner. That reminded him: in anticipation of what he _hoped_ would come later, he needed to put the cat outside.

Somehow.

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_He forgot my birthday. I can't believe he forgot my birthday, _Karen thought miserably as she waited for the stoplight to change on Potomac Parkway. She supposed it was her own fault, she'd been so caught up in work these past few weeks, she hadn't realised she'd been neglecting her husband badly enough to make him forget her _own birthday_- was it any surprise? Nevertheless, the feeling of unhappiness that flooded through her then curled her toes, and she made up her mind right then and there, that tonight she'd spend a little time showing Bill that he _wasn't_ neglected. Even if they _did_ just go to Applebee's, at least she got to spend some time with him.

Traffic was horrendously slow getting across the bridge, and by the time she pulled up to their house in Arlington, she was tired and even more grumpy. Struggling with her briefcase and tall stack of folders, she opened the front door with her elbow, kicking off her shoes in the cosy hallway and dumping her stuff on the stairs. "Honey, it's me!" she called, shrugging off her suit jacket and locking the door, "I'm---" she stopped short and sniffed the air- a tempting spicy aroma lingered, and she broke into a beaming smile when she caught sight of the beautiful red roses in the crystal vase on the hall table and the pink envelope propped up beside them; her name was scrawled on it in Bill's familiar chicken-scratch.

"---home," she finished with a grin, as Bill leaned against the doorframe to the kitchen, a lazy smile on his face, barefoot in jeans and a beat up Brown University alumni t-shirt, covered in spatters of what looked to be flour and tomato sauce. And were those... _scratches_ on his arms? She eyed him with concern.

"Happy birthday honey," he said softly, as she opened her card eagerly, eyes taking in the sentimental verse.

"You cooked?" she asked him with a reproachful smile, thanking him for the flowers as he kissed her forehead.

"I cooked," he confirmed, "you really thought I'd forgotten, didn't you?"

She wrapped her arms around his neck and dusted away the splashes of red sauce on his clean-shaven cheek, "well, it wouldn't surprise me, I_ have_ been neglecting you somewhat these past couple of weeks."

"You've been busy with work," he conceded, "it's perfectly understandable. As long as you promise me your full, undivided attention this evening. I have a lovingly-prepared _sumptuous_ Italian feast that I want you to indulge in, birthday girl."

The smile that graced her face was warm and sincere as he kissed the tip of her nose and led her through to the dining room where he'd already fixed up the table with flickering candles and a lacy tablecloth. A bottle of vintage Barolo sat, opened so it could breathe, next to their finest crystal wine glasses. "Bill," she said softly, wondering when she'd gotten so lucky; "I can _definitely_ promise you that."

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Antipasto was bruschetta. Bill carried the plates in from the still-slightly-untidy kitchen triumphantly and Karen's mouth was already watering as she surveyed the contents. A staple Italian starter- basic and a means of warming up the palate, it always hit the spot. The vine-ripened tomatoes were garnished with fresh basil, mixed with garlic, black pepper and silky olive oil and simply _melted_ on the toasted ciabatta bread. As the chunky texture slid down her throat she welcomed the juicy flavours.

Bill's eyes were bright in the candlelight as he watched her eat, listening to her chat about her day at The White House, only listening with half an ear if he was honest. He savoured the taste of the fruity red wine and merely watched her enjoy the meal, hoping she wouldn't get too irate when she saw the state of the kitchen the next morning. He highly doubted he'd get around to cleaning it _that _night.

Next came the _Bistecchine di maiale_- thick pork chops that had been grilling and now indicated to her _exactly_ what the delicious spicy smell had been when she'd gotten home from work. Seasoned with marjoram, sage and rosemary and accompanied by a simple three-bean salad, Karen tucked in appreciatively.

"Good?" Bill asked, hiding a grin as he speared some on his fork, knowing that it was, even if he _did_ say so himself.

"Oh yeah," Karen's grey eyes twinkled with mischief. "Infact, so good I have a feeling you're going to get _very_ lucky tonight."

Just what he was hoping for, and he leered at her from behind his wine glass. "Well, at the risk of sounding like a dirty old man, maybe I should bring on the desert."

The pièces de résistance- Karen licked her lips as she eyed the fluffy, alcohol-soaked tiramisu, then looked up at her husband, "Bill?" she said coaxingly, "I know how you feel about crumbs on the sheets… but I happen to think _this_ particular meal won't leave _any_ stains on them at all."

His smirk was knowing and expectant, "I'll carry the bowls.. you fetch the spoons."

"But Bill…" her eyes were glinting in a rather naughty fashion as she pulled him upstairs after her, carrying the desert and kicking closed the bedroom door and pulling him close, "who said _anything_ about bowls and spoons?"

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**A/N:** Hope this was to your liking! Don't forget to leave a review. They make me do my happy dance.

The title roughly means:_ Food of love-_ hope I got the translation right. My Italian is rusty to say the least.


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